


the implications of skin on skin

by shrack



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley dreams, M/M, Post-Armageddon, Touch-Starved, it's a fucking two man boogie okay, theyre both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrack/pseuds/shrack
Summary: Armageddon is over. It is the third day of their new lives, and Crowley realizes that nobody has touched him in many, many years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 125





	the implications of skin on skin

**Author's Note:**

> took me a long time to write my first good omens fic. i love these two incompetent ancient beings with all my heart. enjoy!

It’s been years since someone has touched Crowley.

Now, you wouldn’t know this by looking at him. An outsider who knows nothing of demonic temptations might assume that a demon might use their sexual wiles to their advantage, but that was never Crowley’s style. There are years, centuries that Crowley slept through because he was simply bored of being awake, so those don’t really count in his favor. Handshakes, by extension, are almost always initiated by Crowley. They are so few and far between that they hardly count against him, too.

This isn’t a number that Crowley has been keeping track of. Not consciously, anyway. Inside his dreams, may he permit himself to remember them, is a soft comfort that only a certain angel, he believes, could provide. But he finds dreams rather pointless to his waking moments, so he chooses not to remember them. For his own sake, mainly, for he is a selfish being at heart when it comes to letting it be seen by others.

The only reason why this realization comes to mind is because Aziraphale’s finger brushes past his when they argue at the bandstand. It’s laughable, actually, how little they touched. Crowley had stuck his hand out to argue, pointer finger, well,  _ pointing _ , and Aziraphale moves to echo the sentiment, knocking their fingers together. Crowley supposes that he’s not the type to believe in butterflies or electricity when two people touch. But those people in the movies are seldom magical, ethereal, whatever you’d like to call it. It stuns him into silence, mouth working around the words to argue right back at his— _ the  _ angel. 

Aziraphale claims to not like him and that they’ve never been friends, that night. The nasty, eviler part of his brain becomes the serpent he always is, snaking his way around his brain and squeezing that thought into every wrinkle. They are not friends. They have never been friends. Aziraphale has never liked him the way that Crowley adores him. 

Armageddon takes precedence over his feelings. His little outburst in the has-been convent was one-sided, Aziraphale wanted absolutely nothing to do with touching him, then. And then switching bodies with Aziraphale busies him a little bit. Shaking hands with him is strictly business, and the discomfort of inhabiting each others’ bodies and then switching back distracts him. It distracts him from how, really, he’d like to hold Aziraphale’s hand for quite a while after they switch back. He flexes his fingers to try and shake that ghost of a feeling off of it. He thinks if he focuses he can still feel Aziraphale’s hand in his own, soft and smooth, never seeing a hard day’s work in his life. (This isn’t to say Aziraphale hasn’t worked hard—but he takes much better care of his corporation as Crowley is wont to do.)

And then, there is nothing. It is the third day of the rest of their lives. There is no chaos to uphold for anyone down below. He does not have to hide in plain sight with Aziraphale. He sleeps. He decides to remember his dream.

In said dream, he is with Aziraphale. Same as he ever is, tucked inside that bookshop, drinking an expensive wine from a decade that neither of them remember too well. It’s soft. Warm. Nothing like the clutter of Hell. Clean, despite the mess. Everything there makes Crowley feel welcomed, even though it shouldn’t. Aziraphale is talking about something. Even his dream brain can’t even make it out completely. But it’s something he’s passionate about, probably Agnes Nutter’s stupid book and the prophecies they had missed out on during the years they had not had the book. 

He is sitting on one side of the couch, back against the arm but sitting up straight, one leg crooked up while the other is planted on the ground. He holds a wine glass in one hand and gestures excitedly with the other. Crowley himself is on the other end of the couch, one of his own legs stretched out on the ground, the other on the couch, foot planted just out of reach of Aziraphale’s own leg. 

Crowley’s sunglasses are somewhere. He can’t be arsed to try and find them now. This is a dream after all, and some part of his brain is deeply aware of that fact. He wets his lips and watches his own foot. Glances up at Aziraphale, who is still continuing on, and straightens his leg. His foot nudges the outside of Aziraphale’s knee. Without missing a beat, Aziraphale leans the other way to give Crowley the space to stretch his leg out, settling back to rest a gentle weight on top of Crowley’s now outstretched limb. Crowley sucks a breath in between his teeth and, panicked, his eyes shoot up to check Aziraphale’s face. This is weird, surely Aziraphale will figure out what he’s done, pull away, apologize profusely and continue on his merry way. He feels ridiculous for even wanting this but—Aziraphale is nonplussed.

“...and that one was from the eighties, that’s what got Anathema all her money. Did you ever meet that man?”

Crowley wracks his brain. But this is a dream, so of course he has the answer. “Steve Jobs? Weird little bugger. All tech guys are.”

Aziraphale hums. “I thought he was quite nice.”

He looks at Crowley. Or, more accurately, he looks through Crowley. Aziraphale has always had this ability to pick up exactly what Crowley wasn’t putting down. Now, he rarely expressed this, figuring it was easier to let it go rather than stir up the argument that comes along with his assessments. But this is a dream, and this is what Crowley thinks of Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, a phrase that slips from the angel’s lips so often that Crowley’s imagination barely has to work to find those words. He shifts the wine glass into his right hand and places his left on Crowley’s knee. His hand is warm through his slacks. Breath, although he doesn’t need it, gets caught in Crowley’s throat.

“Fine. Great. Ah,” Crowley clears his throat. Buck up, you idiot. “This is going to sound ridiculous, angel, but people usually aren’t so keen on touching a demon. Even if they don’t know one.”

Aziraphale’s face morphs from confusion to sadness. Poor lad. Couldn’t conceal anything on his face if he tried. “ _ Crowley _ ,” he sighs, “that’s not ridiculous. I think everyone deserves a proper hug now and again.”

Crowley gives a bitter laugh. “No hugs for the wicked, I suppose.”

Aziraphale seems to consider something for a moment. A long moment. A dream moment, one of those where you feel like you’re running at top speed but aren’t moving an inch. Then, he slides forward on the couch to be practically in Crowley’s lap. Crowley swallows and, as if a man possessed, glances down at Aziraphale’s lips.

The angel tips his head to the side. “May I?”

Crowley’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, but he nods. He trusts Aziraphale with his life. He has proved that time and again, after all. Aziraphale brings his left hand to cup under Crowley’s jaw, fingers curling around to the nape of his neck. His thumb moves back and forth over where the tattoo rests, and his lips curl into a soft, open smile. Crowley can’t help but lean into it. He feels that damned pricking feeling bloom up behind his eyes, and his chest feels tight with an emotion that he doesn’t like calling by name very often. He’d felt it before, time and time again around Aziraphale, over the thousands of years that they have had the pleasure of knowing each other.

“Angel,” he mutters, and his voice sounds rough to his ears.

Aziraphale uses the leverage to press gently on the back of his head, until Crowley is moving forward and being wrapped in a hug. He misses the hand on his cheek but this is much more—Aziraphale is everywhere and around him, that cologne and old books and that age-old smell that is so distinctly holy and his angel. 

“It’s alright to feel wanted,” Aziraphale says over his shoulder, and Crowley can feel the vibrations in his shoulder, “You  _ are _ wanted. And you are loved. By many people, might I add.”

Aziraphale backs up so he can make eye contact with Crowley. Crowley hasn’t breathed. Aziraphale smiles. “By me.”

Crowley snaps awake with tears in his eyes.

Normally, his day would consist of a blend of meandering around for something to do and causing a low level of evil throughout London. But normal is no longer an option. He starts off tending to his plants. No spots, as always. His heart’s not really in the threatening mood, and the leaves don’t quite shake as much as he enters the room and surveys them all individually. Plants can sense the damndest things.

If he had not remembered his dream, maybe he would just turn up to the bookshop unannounced. There’s something fun about fitting in with the locals, roaming about the aisles until Aziraphale steps up to help him before realizing that it’s just Crowley. Just Crowley. Boring old Crowley, wily serpent. He places his hand on the landline phone, fingers twitching against it when he remembers Hastur’s time trapped in there. Part of him worries that somehow, Hastur’s still in there, waiting for the moment to pounce and drag him right back down to Hell, kicking and screaming. Crowley pulls out his cell phone and rings the shop.

“A.Z. Fell and Co.,” Aziraphale’s voice says on instinct as he answers. He’s as pleasant as ever.

“Are you doing anything today, angel?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, that happy little relieved sigh that makes the corner of Crowley’s mouth turn up into a smirk. “Nothing terribly important. I’m afraid it’s rather busy in the shop, though, for some reason.”

“Would take a proper miracle for your schedule to open up,” Crowley drawls, sitting down in his chair in front of his desk.

“Or I could put on my rude face and usher people on their way.”

“You have a rude face?”

Crowley can imagine Aziraphale puffing up indignantly, shoulders back, raising his chin a little in defiance. “I can be quite rude when I must be, I’ll have you know.”

“I’ll see you in ten, angel.”

Crowley has been back to the bookshop since the fire. It was, however, as Aziraphale, so maybe that made the experience a little bit different for him. Out-of-body in the most literal of senses. He pulls up and parks haphazardly on the side, and the trek to enter nearly makes him falter in his steps. The last time he walked in here, like this, he thought someone had murdered—inconveniently discorporated, best case scenario—his best friend. The only person he had on Earth with him, gone just like that. He wasn’t  _ completely _ wrong, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all.

He opens the door despite the closed sign, scanning the room for Aziraphale. The angel is currently arguing with someone who desperately wants some book over on the left, so Crowley opts for busying himself with the shelves on the right. He doesn’t want to slink into the back until Aziraphale notices him—an almost unspoken agreement, once customers know there is a place further into the shop, they will muck it up with their dirty shoes and prying eyes. The separation of private and public that Crowley understands; while nobody comes into his home, he has to put up appearances for when down below would check in on him.

The bell of the door jingles, and Aziraphale gives a quick sigh. Crowley glances over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who smooths out his vest and turns around to greet Crowley. His scowl is instantly replaced with that ever-present smile as he walks over, and Crowley swallows and turns his head back. He drums his fingers on whatever book he’s been staring at for the past two minutes.

“How much?”

“Not for sale,” Aziraphale chuckles. Crowley turns around and Aziraphale waves a hand towards the back room. “After you.”

If he had forgotten his dream, he would sit on the couch without any hesitation. Instead he props himself on the arm of the couch, watching Aziraphale as he walks around and collects various things for them to get their midday drink on. What else is there to do, really? They could do whatever they want and, somehow, this is exactly it. Crowley swirls his wine glass around, sticking his nose in the top of the glass to inhale. Aziraphale watches him with an amused smile.

“Did you know that most sommeliers are bullshit?” Crowley says when he looks up, and Aziraphale puffs his cheeks out before protesting.

“Surely not  _ all  _ of them.”

“Well, I—probably not  _ all _ of them. But think about it, how many do you think can actually taste ‘hint of chocolate’ or ‘in a barrel next to some lemons’ or whatever.”

Aziraphale’s beaming at him from behind his wine glass, and the look makes something shoot down Crowley’s spine, warm and pleasant.

“What?” He means this to sound much meaner than it comes out.

“Where’d you learn that, Crowley?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, shifting on the arm of the couch. “Met a few of those guys over the years, could sniff them out as liars.”

“Like a sommelier?” Aziraphale teases, and Crowley scoffs.

“Okay smart angel,” Crowley says, sliding over to sit properly on the couch. Or, well, as properly as he is capable of. “Prove me wrong.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “What? That sommeliers are good at their jobs?”

Crowley juts his chin at the wine glass in Aziraphale’s hand. “That you could do it just as good as they can.”

“I didn’t claim that—”

Crowley tilts his head. Aziraphale rises to the bait, because of course he does. He swirls the wine glass, inhales deeply, takes a slow sip and seems to ponder it for a moment. Crowley is a man entranced, watching Aziraphale’s lips, tinged red from the wine, work to try and find the right flavors. They both know that the angel won’t get it, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“I give up,” Aziraphale sighs finally, setting the glass aside. “It just tastes like wine.”

Crowley chuckles. “Hint of grapes, really.”

He pushes himself off the couch to cross the small space to grab the half-empty bottle from the table next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale grabs his wrist before he can reach it—gently, not enough to hurt but just enough to stop him—and Crowley’s whole body freezes up. He glances at Aziraphale, who is paying him no mind and instead grabbing the bottle for him.

“Please, let me,” Aziraphale says, and he must notice that Crowley’s doing his best impression of a statue, because he glances at where he’s holding Crowley’s arm and then up at Crowley’s eyes. Or, well, his sunglasses. He drops his wrist quickly. “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”

“ _ No, _ no, angel, just—” deja vu creeps up on Crowley, and before he can help it he blurts, “People aren’t usually keen on touching a demon.”

Aziraphale just smiles. “Well I’m not  _ people _ , am I?”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. He backtracks and sits down heavily on the couch. He watches Aziraphale watch him; Aziraphale’s eyes flick between both of Crowley’s, clearly contemplating something, before he stands up and sits next to Crowley on the couch.

“Glasses, please?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley snatches his glasses off his face and sets them on the table behind him. When he turns back, Aziraphale’s face is painted in complete, unguarded emotion. It’s not one Crowley could place, he’s bad at identifying the positive emotions, has been for six-thousand years. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs.

"Angel, I—"

"I know."

It's as simple as that. Crowley figures it's always been simple for them. Not really—every time Crowley would ask Aziraphale to go with him, he could  _ feel _ his wall cave in, bend in ever so slightly, before snapping itself right back into place. His blasted loyalty to a side that doesn't care for him. But Aziraphale had risked everything he loved so dearly to come back to humanity; he risked Falling, swan-diving right into Hell, just to save humanity. The selfish part of Crowley's brain thought it was for him, too. It very well could have been.

It really is as simple as that. Aziraphale holds Crowley's face in his hands. The hands that helped build the Eastern gate, aided in Creation, foiled Armageddon, caressed book after book through all those years. They burn on his cheeks but do not hurt. He craves his touch. And Aziraphale wants to provide it.

"Aziraphale," Crowley's voice is rough, half-stuck in his throat.

They are close enough that Crowley can see the flecks of light in Aziraphale's eyes. It's not quite a color, something holy and bright that dances around when you look at him directly, welcoming and soft when Crowley shouldn't find it to be. There is nothing about Aziraphale that Crowley should want. Yet he craves it, like Eve wanted Adam all those years ago.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to realize," Aziraphale murmurs. "You're allowed to want, Crowley."

Crowley wraps one of his hands around Aziraphale's left wrist, tipping his head into his hold. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley cannot sense love in places and other beings. But right then, in his unique imagination, he believes he can. It's warm, all-encompassing, makes his less-than-human heart race just a little faster in his chest.

Aziraphale moves forward to kiss Crowley. He is allowed to want but he still hesitates when he goes to fist a hand in Aziraphale's coat, because the angel's offering himself on a silver platter for Crowley right there. He feels like he's on the edge of a cliff that he very well might tumble off of any second—Aziraphale drops his right hand and slides it in the space between Crowley's jacket and his shirt. 

It feels like Falling. Crowley would Fall again just to experience a hint of what he's feeling right now. It could be because he feels wanted, or the way Aziraphale runs his tongue over his bottom lip like he wants to devour him like the food at the Ritz, or the raw, ugly desire that's flicking up Crowley's body—he's not sure. "Angel," he rasps again, against Aziraphale's lips, a prayer for the first time in his entire life. Aziraphale swallows the word and kisses him again, fervently, and Crowley lets the angel take and take. Whatever he needs. Crowley can be whatever he needs, forever.

They don't need air but they break for it regardless, panting together, sharing their breath. Aziraphale looks flustered (a look that Crowley is familiar with), staring at Crowley with wide-eyed wonder that makes the demon feel like he's drowning. They have missed out on so many years of this because of their incompetence. Crowley wants to laugh.

"Now I feel stupid," Aziraphale admits, so soft that Crowley nearly misses it. Panic shoots up Crowley's spine.

"What? I—er, we—" Crowley trails off into vague noises, and Aziraphale chuckles.

"I noticed," Aziraphale says. "Of course I did. There is so much... _ love  _ in you, Crowley. I always mistook it to be for humanity's sake."

Ah. Right. The urge to argue rises in his throat like bile. 

Aziraphale continues. "I love you. Have for...goodness, centuries? Millennia? I—" He laughs and smooths his thumb over Crowley's cheekbone. "I have loved you for a very long time, you wily old thing."

"I love you too," Crowley says. He surprises himself with how easy it is to admit out loud. Aziraphale smiles at him like he is something forbidden—but he isn't. Not anymore. Crowley's hand tightens in Aziraphale's jacket. 

Nobody has touched Crowley in many, many years. It's obvious when you look at him now, as he lets Aziraphale hold and caress him like a prized toy. There is a desperation to his returning touch: the urgent press of lips, the sharp gasp when Aziraphale tucks kisses under Crowley's jaw, the press of his fingers into his angel's soft sides when he is pressed on his back on the couch. 

"Angel, I—" Crowley's not sure what he's going to ask. If Aziraphale stops touching him, he might shake apart at the seams. How has he gone so long without it? When Aziraphale lifts his head, a goofy grin on his face, Crowley needs to taste it, and surges up to kiss him again.

"I know, Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, "I've got you."

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope i did these two justice. it's always scary to write someone you've been reading for so long, so feedback is obviously appreciated.
> 
> tumblr is shrack, if you dare~


End file.
